How to Breathe
by Celestially
Summary: “Every school of thought has something to say about the importance of breathing. There always seems to be a right way and a wrong way. But you shouldn’t have to be taught how to breathe. It just comes naturally.” HouseWilson, preslash


**How to Breathe**

One night, House opened his eyes and saw Wilson standing in his bedroom.

"Jesus, Wilson, what are you doing here?" House hissed. He sat up, glancing at Stacy to make sure that he hadn't woken her. But the woman was still sleeping peacefully on her stomach, her face turned towards him.

"I'm just checking on you," Wilson offered, as if it explained how he had gotten into the locked apartment in the first place. "Making sure you aren't choking in your sleep or something."

"Okay ... why?"

"I don't have a reason to? You are my _friend_, after all." Wilson smiled.

"You barely know me," House said, frowning. They had met a couple of weeks earlier when Wilson was moved into the office next door. They got lunch together sometimes and enjoyed it, but didn't make an effort to spend time together outside of the hospital. That, in House's opinion, hardly made them _friends_. "And I don't understand what's going on," he added, glancing back at Stacy to make sure she was still asleep.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "She's not going to wake up, you know."

Panic hit very suddenly and _very_ hard. "Why?" House snapped, surprised that he had been able to speak at all, thanks to the fear that was squeezing the air out of his lungs.

"You haven't figured it out yet?"

Figured what out? That Wilson was a psychopath who was bent on breaking into his coworkers' homes, killing their girlfriends, and watching them sleep?

"You're asleep," Wilson continued. "This is a dream. I'm a figment of your imagination. She'll only wake up if you want her to."

"Oh." It was a dream, then. That explanation, while relieving, was far too simple for House's tastes. The underlying mystery, however, was interesting. "So why are _you_ here? Why not ... Erika Eleniak?"

"I prefer Yasmine Bleeth, actually."

"I'm surprised neither of us said Pam Anderson. Eh, she's too air headed for my tastes anyway. But you still haven't explained why you're here."

Wilson shrugged. "I don't know. It's _your_ dream. I'm just here to keep you company." He rolled his eyes. "It's probably nothing, anyway."

"So are you a spiritual version of Wilson that's projecting itself into my dream, or a figment of my imagination?" House asked.

Wilson straightened, one eyebrow raised. "Figment of your imagination. That projection thing is..." He waved abstractedly with a look of confusion in an attempt to convey his thoughts.

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't put it past you to do it. You know what they say about oncologists: always _caring_."

Wilson laughed. "It comes with the territory," he said before shifting his attention to the room itself. "You have a nice room. Did Stacy decorate it?"

"Oh, uh, thanks. No, I lived here before. She only really redid the living room." House leaned back, propped up by his arms. "Wait, so is this some look into my subconscious? Does this mean that I _want_ you to come check on me and compliment my apartment?"

"You ask too many questions." He picked up the small clock from the end table. "I can't answer them for you because I don't know the answers myself. I'm just a creation of your mind."

"So you only know as much as I know." House frowned. "Is my dream supposed to be this cryptic?"

"Yup." Wilson smiled apologetically. "I'm afraid so."

"_Greg_."

House opened his eyes to Stacy's blurry form hovering above his. He squinted, attempting to focus his eyes to the lack of light. "Yeah?" he asked, his voice pushing through a film of disuse.

"You were talking in your sleep," she explained, returning to her usual spot on the left side of the bed.

"Oh." He turned to look at her, content to watch her silhouette. "Was I saying anything?"

"You were muttering," Stacy answered, turning onto her side and shutting her eyes. "I have no idea what you were saying."

Maybe she was lying, but in the bad light it was impossible to tell. Either way, Stacy's reaction wasn't _nearly_ as interesting as the fact that he had a weird dream about a coworker.

What annoyed him, as he fell asleep, was that the Wilson in his dream had lied about Stacy waking up.

* * *

"Why am I still here?"

House looked up from his plate of what was apparently meant to be ziti and stared at Wilson oddly. "Why is _anyone_ here?" he retorted philosophically. "Or do you mean at the hospital? Well, I'd assume it's because you've charmed the board, you conniving little bastard."

"I meant," Wilson explained, unable to hide a grin, "why haven't you gotten rid of me yet?"

"I wasn't aware you were something I could just throw away. Disposable Wilsons. Nice. Do they sell those at Price Club?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "I'm serious, House."

House raised an eyebrow. "You know, usually people who are afraid of something like this don't like to bring it up. It's almost like you're asking for it." A mock-expression of disbelief settled over his face. "Are you telling me that you _want_ me to stop getting lunch with you?"

"I'm just saying, I'm surprised you haven't pushed me away yet. You kind of have a track record for being a lonely bastard."

"With a hot girlfriend?"

"Forget about Stacy for a moment." He stared at House, and the gaze was so oddly intimidating that House had to brush it off with a joke.

"That's going to be pretty hard. Meet her, _then_ tell me if you can keep her out of your mind." House shrugged comically, then turned his attention back to the "ziti," shoveling it into his mouth with great intention. "Don't worry," he said while chewing, "I don't intend to get rid of you any time soon. Your expiration date hasn't come up yet."

"Oh, _thanks_. I assume you still have another half a quart of Wilson left in your fridge, so I wouldn't worry about this one going to waste. Now I don't trust you."

"You shouldn't, anyway. I'm the kind of person who pushes people in the pool when they aren't paying attention. Actually, I prefer stealing candy from babies, because—" House paused and stared at Wilson intently. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"That thing you just did."

"I did a thing?"

"You twitched."

Wilson sighed in relief, a wonderfully sarcastic look on his face. While the mystery of the one-time dream was still of interest, House had since realized that he liked spending time with Wilson for reasons that didn't only involve figuring out what the dream had meant. He was, after all, a surprisingly good opponent in the field of witty banter—and if House knew the look on that face well enough, he'd say that Wilson was about to say something _clever_. "Oh, thank God, it was just involuntary muscle movement. For a second, I thought I might have some terrible disease."

House barely managed to conceal a smirk. "Well, you never know, it might be epilepsy. We might have to do a neurological exam."

"Pencil me in for four. When you told me that my headache and fatigue could be an early sign of African sleeping sickness, I scheduled some blood work for three thirty. You know, just in case it wasn't a hangover like I had assumed it was."

"Careful, the Tsetse fly can _smell fear_." House's face became serious again. "You're not off the hook. You _flinched_."

"Don't think you can distract me with imaginary flinches. I still want to know why you haven't pushed me away like you _apparently_ push everyone _else_."

"It _wasn't imaginary_. And why should you care about me pushing other people away? It means I can spend more time with _you_. You _like_ that, don't you?" House emphasized his point with a leer.

"I _should_ care about it," Wilson said, pointedly ignoring House's leer. "I've been here for about three months and I've been drawn into your ... _web_ of ... of whatever this is ever since. Nobody's lasted that long, at least according to the nurses. I just want to understand why I'm so different."

House laughed dryly. "You make it sound like I'm a big hungry spider. For your information, _no_, I don't intend to eat you." He looked down for a moment, deciding to avoid answering the _real_ question before continuing: "Why are you worried about this? Are you worried what people think about you? Because if that's the case, I'm afraid to say that you're looking for friendship in the wrong place. In case you haven't noticed, people are all about judging me."

"That's not the issue."

"Does it have to do with how much time you're spending with me instead of with your wife?"

"House—" Wilson warned.

"Okay, I can take a hint," House said flippantly. "Let's return to the subject of the flinch."

"Can you drop it? It's nothing."

"Hah!" House pointed at Wilson with victorious enthusiasm. "A few minutes ago, there _was_ no flinch. So what did I say? I smell a suppressed memory, and I won't stop until I figure out what it is."

"_House_."

"I talked about pushing people in the pool and stealing candy from babies. So unless you're a serial candy bandit, I would guess you have a bad pool experience." House stared with interest. "What happened?"

For a moment, Wilson didn't answer. "My brother fell in the pool one day," he finally said. He then sat in silence, pushing his bag of chips with the tip of his index finger. "I don't know why I just told you that."

"Because I'm your friend?" House suggested. Wilson looked over at him as if to check for sincerity, but House kept his face perfectly neutral. "So what happened?"

Wilson sighed. "We had a pool in our backyard, and this was before Michael was good at swimming. It was in the shallow end and he practically landed on his feet, and there was no risk, he was fine. But he still panicked because he thought he was going to drown. It took us ten minutes to calm him down. I should have kept a better eye on him. He _still_ gets nervous around the pool."

"Who did it?"

Wilson blinked. "Who said anyone did it?"

"I said _push_ people into the pool, not fall in." House scrutinized Wilson's face, as if the truth was written in secret code across his skin. "So who did it?"

"...someone you don't know."

"Tell me anyway. Unless you did it, I probably don't even know the person."

"It's irrelevant. ...it was an accident, anyway, so it doesn't even matter." Wilson glanced away awkwardly. "What matters is that Michael was four when this happened and it really scared me. So can we drop the issue? Just add it to your file or something."

House didn't admit it to Wilson, but he did add that to his own mental file, which was decidedly incomplete. Smiling lightly, he snatched the bag of chips Wilson had been poking and started eating the contents. "Do you have any plans tonight?"

Wilson didn't attempt to hide a look of surprise. "I ... uh, why?"

"I plan on continuing my differential of your headache and fatigue. More alcohol is the only good way to test whether it was a hangover or Sleeping Sickness, and this time _I_ want to be there to monitor it."

* * *

One night, several years later, House opened his eyes and saw sunlight and shimmering blue water. He was sitting in a lounge chair by a pool, which he immediately realized was the pool in Wilson's backyard. House wasn't sure why he knew this, seeing as he had never been to Wilson's childhood home, but passed this off as a false memory.

Standing some ten feet away was Wilson, wearing those ridiculous canary yellow swim trunks that House had dared him to buy a while ago. (And this had actually happened: they went to Florida with Stacy and Bonnie and saw those disgusting yellow things in the hotel store.)

Wilson smiled, looking around the backyard. "So this is how you imagine my childhood home. I kind of like it."

"What, what does it really look like?" House asked, still reclined in the chair.

"I have no clue. This is _your_ dream, not mine."

Somehow House knew that he would get that answer. "So what's my subconscious trying to tell me now? That I want you to wear those swim trunks or something?"

Wilson looked down and groaned in embarrassment. "No, you want to _laugh_ at me. I want to laugh at me too, actually. I still can't believe you talked me into buying them. What's worse, Bonnie actually _liked_ them."

House smiled. "They aren't as bad as I remembered."

"Yes they are."

House laughed lightly. He didn't want feel like arguing over something as pointless as how Wilson looked in canary yellow trunks, especially when the real Wilson had sworn never to wear them (which defeated the purpose of daring him to buy them in the first place). He felt oddly comfortable on the lounge chair in Wilson's imaginary backyard, which washed away the nagging sensation that he was going to be unhappy again when he woke up. "Well, the yellow _might_ look better if you got some sun, whitey."

Wilson winced. "Thanks a lot," he said resentfully, but still walked towards where House was sitting, presumably to lie in the sun.

Before House could even say anything else, Wilson tripped, as if some invisible force had pushed him. The fabric of his yellow shorts rippled as he cut through the air, tumbling straight into the pool.

"Wilson?" House asked, sitting up. He waited a moment, and when his friend didn't surface, he pushed himself off of the chair in order to sprint towards the edge of the pool.

And immediately fell.

House looked up, suddenly feeling a terrible pain in his right thigh. His first reaction was to curl up on his side and clutch his leg, biting the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from crying out in pain. But Wilson was the priority—even now he was floating limply at the surface of the pool.

House winced as he dragged his body forward, unable to will his right leg to move. He moved at snail's pace compared to how he would usually move, and his forearms scraped against hard stone as he scrambled towards the edge of the pool. He had to stop himself from tumbling in as well as he reached out for Wilson, hoping to grab onto hand, foot, or anything he could use to drag him out.

By the time House managed to pull him out the pool, Wilson looked blue.

His right leg was screaming in protest, and finally staged a mutiny. House's body collapsed and he once again curled up, trying not to scream in frustration. In an unconscious effort to distract himself from the pain, he noticed the stupid little details of his surroundings, like the rosy tinge to the stone floor and the angle of Wilson's jaw. Pointless details, really, especially because he had probably fabricated most of them.

But even though this situation was highly fictional, House still found that there was something sadistic about not doing anything when your friend has just inhaled water. He freed one hand from its vice grip around his thigh and reached for Wilson. He was suddenly aware of the lack of physical contact that they had shared, despite being friends for a few years now. House's hand drew back a bit, afraid to disturb Wilson's privacy by initiating contact, even if it was to save him.

He wanted to speak, for some strange reason, in order to fill the eerie silence that was otherwise occupied by the sound of lapping waves against the pool's edge. He wanted to tell Wilson that everything would be okay, despite how cheesy it sounded and awkward it felt. But his throat was clenching in fear and something akin to sadness, and he found himself unable to speak. His voice croaked as he tried to push the words out, and what was supposed to be "Wilson" actually sounded like a garbled groan.

House stayed in place, sprawled on the stone, nearly paralyzed. He was only able to reach out for Wilson's wrist, attempting to check for his friend's pulse.

When he couldn't find it, his breathing almost stopped too.

With a blink the scene changed. House stared up at white, almost fluorescent light that burnt his eyes. His leg ached more than ever, and with lack of anything better to do, he groaned. All of a sudden, Wilson was hovering above him, a halo of fluorescent light around his head. It cast a pleasant shadow over House's face, and he shut his eyes, smiling at the slight relief. He briefly wondered whether or not the scene had reversed itself, if House had been the one drowning and Wilson had saved him. Either way, he felt a little bit more at ease knowing that Wilson was safe.

House weakly raised a hand, once again groping at the air in order to reach Wilson. Maybe he wanted to atone for his inaction during the dream, but he mainly wanted to make sure that this was _real_. His hand reached a wet cheek, and while the thought of Wilson crying over him certainly made him feel uncomfortable, he knew that this person wasn't Wilson. Wilson, while certainly sensitive, wasn't the type to sit and weep—he was more likely to bottle everything in and slowly self-destruct in solitude.

House opened his eyes and saw white, hospital, and Stacy.

Everything clicked together in a way that made him wonder why he had forgotten it in the first place. Hospital. Infarction. ...right.

"W-Wilson?" he asked, although it sounded more like a grunt than anything else.

"No, Greg. _Stacy_," Stacy corrected, uncharacteristically gentle. Normally she would have laughed at him for making a mistake like that—even though it wasn't a mistake, he _did_ genuinely want to know where Wilson was. But Stacy was too busy pitying him to pick up on that, just as she was too busy to laugh at him for looking like a pathetic idiot. Or maybe she was still upset about their last conversation.

"Where did he go?" House asked, his voice still scratchy from disuse. "He was just here."

"He hasn't been here since you—" Stacy looked down and shook her head, unwilling to continue. Instead, she put her hand to his damp forehead, tentatively, as if she was afraid of him swatting it away. "It was just a dream."

House stayed silent for a moment. "Oh." He shut his eyes and, suddenly afraid of entering his previous dream again, continued speaking. "The idiot nurse still should have listened to me."

"I'm not having this argument again, Greg."

Of course she didn't, seeing as he complained about that nurse nearly killing him every time he was awake. He opened his eyes again and looked at Stacy. She was looking down again, and her entire body seemed rigid, like a statue. She didn't look as good as she normally did. Grief didn't exactly suit her. "What's wrong?" he asked, a little suspicious.

Stacy looked up at him and smiled sadly. "I'm just ... nervous."

"Why?"

"I don't have the right to be worried about you?" Before he could answer, she continued. "I told Dr. Cuddy about the coma for you."

"And?" Any hope in his tone was overshadowed by his absolute self-assurance. He had enough guilt on Cuddy to get what he wanted this time. "What did she say?"

"She'll be coming in soon enough to administer it."

House decided to ignore her hesitance and tried to snort, as if to assert that he had been right all along. The action backfired as his throat tensed, leading him into a coughing fit. Stacy reached over and held his shoulder reassuringly; she was ready to jump into action if she needed to but otherwise resigned herself to playing the role of the comforting girlfriend. They rode the last of the coughs together and when he tentatively opened his eyes, she was smiling sadly back at him.

"See if you can nap for a bit," she said, petting his head. "I'll wake you up before they put you under, if you want."

He nodded, and she leaned in to kiss him on the forehead. There were tears in her eyes, and he suddenly felt incredibly uncomfortable. He closed his eyes, secretly hoping that if he didn't see her crying she wouldn't actually cry, but he knew that was bullshit.

"And if Wilson—" he started to ask.

"I'll wake you." Stacy shook her head as he drifted off. "He said that he would be busy today, but that he would stop by as soon as he could. It's really nice of..."

* * *

Wilson had only been a figment of his imagination during the infarction. House never saw his friend in person, but he was almost always present in dreams and hallucinations, and there they would talk and converse as if House wasn't asleep or in surgery. Oddly, he was aware of the pain each time: sometimes it crippled him and he was unable to do much anything, but at other times it was reduced to an annoying tingle that slowed his movement. But this part only mattered in his dreams, when he really wanted or needed to move.

He only remembered having one dream while in his coma. That time, he opened his eyes and only saw Wilson in a vast, empty space. The younger man only smiled before walking forward, and House wordlessly followed. They wandered through unidentifiable empty space, quietly chatting and joking, until House suddenly fell to the floor with a cry of agony. He clutched his thigh with watery eyes as an agonizing weight pressed down on his chest, keeping him on the floor.

"What's wrong?" Wilson asked, with a frustrating calm manner that made House's cry of pain seem trivial.

"It _fucking hurts_!" House shouted. He rubbed at his thigh, hoping that the heat and friction would make the pain go away. Instead, his anger gave way to worried resignation. "I don't know what happened."

Wilson frowned and dropped to get a better look. "I'm not sure either," he concluded, watching as House's hand motions changed from rubbing to massaging.

"Great, another thing to add to the list of things neither of us know. These dreams _suck_." He kept his gaze fixed on the ground, not really sure what he'd see when he looked back up. "So what do we do next?" House asked.

Wilson didn't answer the question, instead shifting his weight so he could push himself up to a standing position. When House looked up expectantly, he saw Wilson offering a hand to help _him_ stand as well.

"Are you crazy? I can't walk like this!"

"You haven't tried yet." Wilson was unrelenting, and his offered hand stayed firmly in place. "Come on, we'll go find you some meds for the pain."

House frowned. "Where? Where are we, anyway?"

Wilson shrugged. "Like I know. It's _your_ dream."

He woke up to find that part of his thigh was missing. And until he left the hospital, House didn't dream, not even about Wilson—or even about Stacy, who deserved his anger. He slipped in and out of consciousness, not seeing much else other than the inside of his eyelids. He drowned in the familiar darkness like it was the water of some childhood swimming pool.

* * *

Despite the fact that Wilson had been his caretaker after discharge, House recovered from the operation assuming that _Wilson hadn't been there_. While he felt thoroughly betrayed by the man who was supposed to be his best friend, at least there was _someone_ House couldn't blame for what happened.

Meanwhile, he recovered, doped up on pain medication until he didn't even know who he _was_ anymore. By the time House was lucid, he had already spent three weeks at home, Stacy was gone, and Wilson was a fixture in his apartment, like a new lamp in an already-bright room: _absolutely pointless_. Still, it was the first real human he remembered seeing in a while, so the change was welcome, especially if this first real human planned on making lunch.

Wilson was able to describe everything that had happened in the past couple of weeks, since House could _only_ remember being told about the operation to his leg. After discharge he had spent three weeks in a medicated haze, slipping in and out of consciousness enough to tell people what he needed and, apparently, push Stacy over the edge.

"Wait. What do you mean, 'push Stacy over the edge?'" House asked, a chill settling in his solar plexus.

"You weren't acting like yourself," Wilson explained. "I know you don't remember anything, but you were still pretty functional despite being high on medication. Your insults were more on target than usual, and you drove Stacy to tears more than once. You spent four days in the hospital out of the coma before I brought you home—by the end of the third, she had already packed up her stuff."

With further urging, Wilson recounted the last thing she had said before she left for good: she preferred leaving the relationship when she could convince herself that the "real" Greg still loved her. She didn't want to be around when his pupils focused back into reality and directed a genuine, unforgiving scowl at her.

And after having spent three weeks hallucinating, assuming new identities until he forgot who he really was, House was too exhausted to hide his reaction and too weak to yell at Wilson. He broke down in front of Wilson, who stoically attempted to gather the shattered pieces.

Having regained his ability to consciously function, House didn't need constant supervision anymore, thus allowing Wilson to get back to work. He now visited in the morning, during lunch, and for several hours after work, occasionally sleeping on the couch in the living room if House was in more pain than usual. Now that he had shown vulnerability, House was suddenly wary of his younger friend, convinced that Wilson too would abandon him. House wasn't sure why this bothered him so much, and simply assumed that he was trying to substitute his now irrelevant affection for Stacy with friendship with Wilson.

So he did the only thing he could really do well, considering the circumstances: misplace his overdue anger.

"Stop that."

"Stop _what_?"

"_That_. I swear to God, you've probably turned everything into glittery rainbows with all of that _caring_."

Wilson appeared in the doorway, holding a spoon in one hand. "If you don't want me to make you dinner, fine. But could you at least be a bit nicer?"

"Oh, what are you making now, soup?" House sneered. "Great. That's probably turned into liquid candy and unicorns."

"That ... doesn't even make much sense," Wilson responded, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. There was a vague look of disgust on his face, as if he were trying to figure out whether the unicorn of said soup would be a puree or a broth. "It's tomato."

His favorite. But he didn't feel like being nice today. "So you're eager to stick around and make me tomato soup, sure," House said as Wilson walked away with a groan. He waited until he was sure that Wilson was in the kitchen before adding: "Great. Why weren't you making me tomato soup when I was in the hospital?"

Wilson didn't answer at first. House aimed for that sore spot pretty often, and despite the younger man's reluctance to show it House knew that it hurt every time. It wasn't until he heard the sound of the stove turning off in the kitchen and footsteps padding towards his room that House allowed himself to smirk.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Wilson asked, his voice thick. He stepped further into House's room this time, silhouetted against the light from the hallway. The smirk immediately dropped from House's face. "Do you have any idea what you've been putting me through?"

"You sound like a middle-aged wife," House said unhelpfully, since it honestly was the only thing he could think of.

"And once again, you push me away with humor! Good for you, House!" Wilson ran a hand through his hair and laughed humorlessly. "So what now? Are you just going to keep on reminding me that I wasn't there for you when you were in the hospital? Because I'm trying as hard as I damn well can to keep you appeased now that I actually can. Apparently it's _still_ not good enough."

"No, it's not." House felt surprisingly calm. The conflicting pain, anger, and fear, combined with the morphine he had taken earlier, had left him feeling completely mellow, albeit still purposely vindictive. "Do you think that making me food every day is going to make the pain go away, or fix my leg, or bring Stacy back? Because it's not going to. And in case you haven't noticed, you're no substitute for Stacy."

House knew he was lying. He still loved Stacy, of course, but she was still a lying, scheming bitch who deserved whatever he had apparently dished out at her. He had only said that to see how far he could push Wilson until ... House wasn't even sure what the ultimate goal was, but he felt some sort of twisted pleasure at hurting his friend every single day.

"This is ... screwed-up," Wilson finally said, his voice empty. "I don't know why I bother with you." He immediately spun and, moments later, House heard the front door close.

He sat there for minutes, waiting for Wilson to turn back and apologize.

Thirty minutes later, he realized that Wilson wasn't coming back.

Of course, this was a _dream_. And he couldn't _make_ Wilson come back, since he didn't _want_ Wilson to come back. Not exactly. He expected it because it always happened. The one constant in his life: no matter what, Wilson _always_ came back.

So he did the first thing that came to mind: he shut his eyes and willed himself to wake up.

When House reopened his eyes and realized he wasn't dreaming, he didn't know how to react. The threat of tears had just started to choke him when he remembered that he didn't cry over stupid things like that. Oddly, the realization calmed him, but the tension didn't leave his throat.

He fell asleep again asking himself who needed to apologize _more_.

* * *

According to Cuddy, Wilson had kept vigil at House's bedside when he could. Dr. Byles, the current head of the oncology department, was retiring, and Wilson was one of the potential candidates for the position. (House attributed it to Wilson's natural gift with paperwork.) He didn't get the position, either: he lost it to a more seasoned oncologist because the board wanted to give him more time to get used to the hospital. The new head, Dr. Murphy, was planning on retiring in the next two or three years anyway, so it was just a matter of waiting.

House didn't find out about this until _later_, when he was back at the hospital and avoiding the pitying stares as he awkwardly limped to his office, guilty about making Wilson feel guilty. But he never apologized about it because, no matter how much House hurt him, Wilson came back the next day.

* * *

"So I've noticed that you haven't taken a day off in a while," House pointed out several years later.

Wilson looked up from his paperwork. "Me? Yeah, I've been busy."

"Well I think it's a crime to waste perfectly good vacation days." House grinned, leaning forward. "Think I can take yours?"

"You know, the more clinic duty you avoid, the more Cuddy will make you do. I hope you've noticed _that_ too."

"I have, I just choose to ignore it." House leaned back in his chair again, looking thoughtful. "I mention this because I was thinking about the time we went to New York City and went to the Shake Shack. _Maybe_, just maybe I'll let you take me again."

Wilson raised his eyebrows. "We—what?"

"We rode the bus to Madison Square. And I stole some of your fries, and then made a scene just to scare the small children that kept on looking at us." House frowned. "None of this sounds familiar?"

"No. I have no idea what you're talking about," Wilson said slowly, a look of confusion still etched on his face. "Maybe you went with someone el—right, no, I'm the only one who'd go with you. Never mind." Ignoring Houses glare, he added: "Are you sure you didn't just imagine it or something?"

Better yet, he had dreamt it. The scene took place in winter, and they rode the M4 down Fifth Avenue, laughing at the people outside waddling through the thick snow. They stared at Woody Allen, who was sitting a few rows away, and had just worked up the courage to say hello when he got out at 34th street. And when the bus stopped at 23rd street and they stepped out into the blanket of snow, Wilson looked so pale that the fresh snow seemed dirty by comparison. House, of course, called Wilson a "pasty-ass whitey" and snickered as Wilson's face turned red in anger and embarrassment. But _both_ of their faces were pink by the time their hamburgers arrived, and House insisted on eating outside. A group of schoolchildren clustered at another table about halfway through the meal, so House started talking about festering sores until they left, taking the opportunity to steal the rest of the fries when Wilson admitted that he, too, had been grossed out.

How could he have forgotten that it was a dream?

"Or maybe your memory's just gotten bad," House said, deciding not to admit that he had mistaken a dream for reality. "I always knew you would go senile first."

Wilson rolled his eyes and looked back down at his paperwork. "Of course. You're always right."

"Naturally."

That night, House dreamt that the M4 crashed and he was the only survivor.

* * *

One night, House opened his eyes and saw Wilson's backyard again. This time, Wilson was sitting in the chair next to him, not in hideous canary yellow shorts, but in pleasant blue ones. The color looked nice on him.

"So tell me again why we're in your backyard?" House asked.

"I ... uh ... never told you anything in the first place," Wilson answered, a confused look on his face. He glanced at House. "Did you go to bed high?"

"No."

"I still don't have the answer." Wilson rolled his eyes. "Just like I didn't have it the first time."

"See, that's just it. Why would we be here again?" House glanced back at Wilson, and then paused. "Have you lost weight?"

"You noticed it earlier this week."

"That would be a yes, then." House sat up in his seat, noticing briefly that his own black shorts covered the scar on his right leg, hoping that the new position would help him think. "But why would my subconscious want to bring me back here? It doesn't make sense, unless—" House froze as the memories of the previous dream rushed through his head. "Wilson, are you going to die?"

Wilson didn't answer at first, instead locking his gaze with House's. "Everybody dies," he said philosophically.

House would have laughed: with the inflection that Wilson had used, the line had sounded like a parody of his usual motto. But he was too intent on solving the mystery to _laugh_. "I meant: are you going to die during this dream?"

Wilson smiled faintly, but sarcasm was still thick in his voice. "Why, House, is that concern?"

"I'm serious, Wilson."

The younger man raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

"The past couple of times I dreamt about you, you died," House added, quietly. He had been reluctant to admit to _either_ Wilson exactly how much it had been bothering him, but figured that the dream one already knew.

Wilson looked back at House sympathetically. "I know. I was there."

House had taken for granted the fact that this Wilson was aware of each and every single dream. He was suddenly struck with embarrassment and curiosity, and he forced himself to repress both emotions as he waited for the continuation of Wilson's response.

"But why should you care?" Wilson continued nonchalantly, leaning back in his seat. "We've been friends for a very long time, after all."

"What if I want you to stick around?" House asked, the words pouring out of his mouth before he could even think to restrain them. "Is that a problem?"

Wilson smiled again, wider this time. "No, it isn't," he answered, standing and starting a casual walk towards the pool.

"Wait. Stop. What are you doing?"

The younger man froze on House's command and turned deliberately. "...I'm getting us beer," he explained.

House's heart slowed a bit. "Oh." He nodded, letting Wilson's response sink in. "Don't you feel weird drinking in your childhood backyard?"

"It's been your lifelong dream to get absolutely trashed in front of your parents, but you've never had the guts to do it. This is the best I can do for you, I'm afraid." When House laughed, Wilson grinned and continued: "Stay there. I'll be right back."

As House watched Wilson retreat around a corner, he realized that not only had he seen Wilson's childhood home since he first had the dream, but it looked absolutely _nothing_ like how he had pictured it. But the backyard had stayed the same, perhaps in order to reinforce that he was back in _this_ place. He wondered whether the inside of the house would be identical to its real counterpart, but wasn't about to test that out, mainly because his leg ached.

Other than that, however, things had changed completely. They were both several years older, with more scars and floppy bits than they had during the first dream. They were closer, now, although they still hesitated to confide in each other. And even though the passage of time had revealed as many of Wilson's bad characteristics and it had good ones, House was pretty sure that he held more respect for his best friend than he had before, despite his earlier impression that Wilson was a do-no-wrong, Boy Wonder Oncologist. Boy Wonder Oncologist he remained, but he was willing to dirty his hands a bit more now to get what he wanted, and his personal life was in complete shambles.

House laughed, because they were two rather screwed-up, single men who had hit middle age and weren't getting any younger. A match made in heaven. He would let Wilson stick around after all, although he took him many years to decide that for sure.

"I found some whisky, too, for later," Wilson said as he returned with a few bottles of beer.

"Bless my interpretation of your parents and their drinking habits." House smiled gratefully, tilting his head up. "Now all we need is strippers. _Lots_ and _lots_ of strippers. Preferably hot ones."

Just as House looked back, Wilson lost his footing by the edge of the pool and tumbled in, the beers shooting amber arcs in the air as they followed. Thankfully there was no sickening crack of Wilson's head hitting against the edge, but he still didn't hesitate to rush towards the pool despite the terrible ache in his leg.

Wilson was floating at the bottom of the pool, so House briskly lowered himself in and pulled his friend back up with great effort from his left leg. With even greater effort he pushed Wilson out of the water and quickly joined him, pausing only momentarily to calm the screaming muscles of his right thigh. This time he didn't hesitate, turning Wilson over to check his pulse.

There was none.

A differential diagnosis immediately ran through his head, but his thoughts were erratic and instead he thought about all of the shitty things he had done to people recently. Topping the list, of course, had been the comment he had made to Wilson before going into his bedroom and closing the door, leaving his friend to sleep on the couch ("Spend much more time crashing on my couch and you'll end up as fucked up as you say _I_ am"). This was, of course, entirely unhelpful, so instead House shut his eyes, cleared his head of the guilt and apologies that should have been uttered, and prepared to give Wilson CPR.

When House opened his eyes again, Wilson was not lying by the edge of the pool, but hanging at its edge, a beer bottle in one hand, staring curiously at House.

"_Jesus Christ_!" House exclaimed, nearly leaping back in surprise.

"Oh." Wilson looked away. "Sorry about that."

"What the _hell_ just happened?" House's heart was pounding in his chest, and he had half a mind to yank the younger man out of the pool and beat him senseless.

"I died. Again." Wilson winced in embarrassment at his words. "I didn't want to tell you that it was going to happen because I knew you would try to stop me and it _needed_ to happen."

House glared at Wilson, the obvious question hanging in the air.

"I don't know _why_, but you saved me this time," Wilson explained.

"Then why not any of the other times?" House asked, still confused and no calmer than he had been before. Remembering the bus crash, mugging, and Meningoencephalitis, he added: "Is this a question of want again? Because I'm pretty sure I wanted you to live all of those times!"

"...apparently not."

House's jaw tensed, his attempt at being genuinely nice thwarted by a statement that may or may not have been true. He almost wanted to yell out in frustration, proclaim to the world that _this_ was why he wasn't nice to people. Instead he looked back at Wilson with his jaw set at a stubborn angle, hoping that the force behind his glare would erase any image of his kindness or sincerity from Wilson's mind, but knowing full well that it wouldn't.

Wilson opened his mouth to speak, then immediately shut it. Instead, he treaded to the ladder a couple of feet away and climbed out of the pool, chlorine wetting the rosy stone and turning it a browner color. He ran a hand through his wet hair, fluffing it up a bit so it didn't stick to his forehead. It looked a great deal messier than usual, but Wilson didn't seem to mind as he walked towards where House was sitting.

"Don't touch me," House warned. "You're wet. I don't want to get wet. Don't touch me when you're wet."

"You're _already_ wet," Wilson said with a calm smile, pulling him to his feet. House noticed how close they were, and how different it had been the last time Wilson had died. Oddly, he also noticed that _Wilson_ had always been the one to occasionally break House's personal space and made contact. Like that time when Wilson treated House's broken hand and held it, gingerly, between his own. Or the time when Wilson kneeled by him, checking to see if he was alive before finding the stolen pills. Or that one time when he grabbed House's cane, which had been annoying but was funny in hindsight.

He didn't even flinch when Wilson reached out and touched the side of his head, his hand surprisingly warm. House calmed down, his muscles relaxing as if he had just used them to fight back. "It's okay, House. Everything's okay."

And it sounded neither cheesy nor awkward.

He blinked.

It had been a nightmare, but House didn't wake with a start: he woke with an odd sense of calm. He glanced around with half-lidded eyes, disoriented enough to not be able to recognize the shapes and objects surrounding him. All he noticed was the darkness of his room, and the glow of twilight mixed with streetlights that shone through the window. While he would normally be frustrated by his lack of comprehension, he felt safe in a weird way, and sighed into the comfort.

"Are you awake?" a voice asked very close to his ear. If he hadn't known any better, he would have said that it sounded like—

"Wilson?" House asked, suddenly aware of everything around him. The sheets kicked off of the bed, the sweat-drenched hair sticking to his forehead, and Wilson, sitting on the edge of the bed next to him in his McGill sweatshirt and sweatpants, looking down at him. It took him an extra second to notice that he was leaning against Wilson's chest.

"I'm sorry," Wilson immediately said, slipping away from House to stand. The sudden absence of contact made him realize that Wilson's arm had been wrapped around House's shoulder, and that his forehead had been resting against House's skull. The warmth around House's ear, where Wilson's breath had fallen, lingered. "You were—well—I know you like your space—so do I, I mean, but I was disturbing your priva—"

"Knock it off, it's fine," House said, a little embarrassed himself. Thankfully, unlike Wilson, he was able to mask his embarrassment with indifference.

"You were having a nightmare," Wilson continued, slightly calmer. "I heard you from the living room, and I didn't really know what to do so I ... did this." He paused, shifting awkwardly. "My brother used to get nightmares, and my mom would do this to calm him down. I mean, she used to actually ... you know, _sing_, but I'm a little less musical than she is."

"Michael?" House asked, needing to check now that he knew of the other. When Wilson nodded, he continued: "Was this after the pool thing?"

Wilson's face froze in surprise. "Well—yes. How did you—"

"You told me about it years ago. Before the infarction."

Wilson didn't ask any more questions, like why House had remembered that minute detail in the first place. Nor did House repeat his earlier question about who had been the pusher, because he was pretty sure he knew the answer now and didn't really feel like unsettling Wilson. He'd confirm that theory at a later date.

They stayed silent for a moment, glancing around awkwardly until Wilson laughed and tried to break the tension. "You know, when I first came in here, you ... you jumped up and grabbed me by the shoulders, like you were afraid of something."

"Why is that funny?"

Wilson's smile faded. "It's not, I just..."

Again, they fell silent. Only, this time, their eyes were locked.

"You seemed more relaxed after that," Wilson continued, apologies thick in his voice. "What were you dreaming about?"

House was startled by this question, but didn't show it. He was surprised when he answered: "A question that's been bothering me for a really long time."

Wilson smiled, the unasked question hiding in the faint lines around his eyes. "So it isn't a case?"

"No." House looked down. "I didn't think that it would take this long to answer. Every time I think I'm getting closer, something else happens that throws me off completely. You'd think my subconscious is just _trying_ to piss me off now."

"I guess ... dreams are a little bit like breathing," Wilson said, looking up at the ceiling. "Every school of thought has something to say about the importance of breathing. There always seems to be a right way and a wrong way, just like how there has to be a right or wrong interpretation." He smiled. "But you shouldn't have to be taught how to breathe. It just comes naturally."

House smiled as the cogs turned in his head.

"Anything else I can do to help while I'm here?" Wilson asked smugly, a master of reading the looks on House's face.

House groaned in annoyance, then replaced it with his usual indifferent mask. "Sleep. I expect you to cook me breakfast tomorrow morning, and you need rest to do that." Never mind that it was his twisted version of thanks, he did actually want pancakes. _Good_ ones. He turned over, facing away from Wilson. "...I'm serious."

"I know." He could practically _hear_ Wilson smile. "'Night, House."

"Yeah. 'Night."

* * *

He opened his eyes and saw white light, warm air, and Wilson sitting beside him in a grassy field.

"Where are we?" House asked. He faced Wilson, who was looking up at the bright white sky.

"I don't know," Wilson offered, still looking up. "It's _your_ dream."

"I guess so." He smiled, still amused, for some reason, by the fact that they always seemed to have this conversation in his dreams. "Hey, Wilson?"

"Yeah, House?"

"I've been trying to solve this mystery since the first dream—" House started, but Wilson cut him off.

"I know. That's how we became friends."

House winced at how callous that statement sounded, especially because it wasn't the whole truth. But he needed to get this point across. "I still haven't."

"I know."

"Which is what bothers me. You know everything I know." House ran his right hand through the grass, twirling the individual strands between his fingers and carefully ripping a few from the soil. "And my subconscious knows why I've been having these dreams. Following that logic, you should too." When Wilson didn't answer, he added, hesitantly: "Please. I just want to understand."

Wilson turned his head towards House. "You don't usually say please." He raised his eyebrows. "Why House, are you begging?"

"I'll throw in a thank you afterwards if you tell me now. Limited time offer."

"That doesn't mean I can tell you."

"Hah!" House would have pointed at Wilson, but it would have been awkward. "So there is something."

"Except there isn't," the younger man explained. He paused before adding: "I'm sorry, House. I wish I could tell you, but there's nothing for me to say."

House's face fell as his final lead fell to pieces. It took all of his effort to not scream in protest and frustration, his voice oddly calm as said: "No, that's not—that's not how it works."

Wilson blinked. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"I want something. It's my dream. I should be able to get it. You said so yourself." His frown deepened. "So talk."

Wilson shifted uncomfortably, looking back up at the sky. "I..." He sighed in annoyance, and House wondered what he was so annoyed at. "I don't even want to know."

"You don't want to understand what these dreams are about?" House asked, very confused.

"Yeah, it's weird for a person _not_ to want to solve a mystery, right?" Wilson retorted bitterly. "It's not like I'm the _real_ one, anyway, so what difference does it make? I don't _matter_, in the end."

House couldn't answer.

"Besides, I'm happy like this now," Wilson admitted. His face was turned away from House's. "You know what they say. Ignorance is bliss."

"They don't know what they're talking about." House looked up at the white sky, asking himself if it was naturally that color or just blanketed in clouds. He also wondered if dream-Wilson was at all jealous of the real one, or if the dreams would stop when he found the answer.

"So do you still want to know?" Wilson asked hesitantly.

"Of course." House looked back at Wilson. "And when I figure it out, the test will be whether or not it happens in my dream. After all, if I want it to happen, then it'll happen. Not that I _like_ that asshole who calls himself my subconscious calling the shots, but he seems to know what's best for me."

Wilson nodded. "I guess so."

"But first," and here, House stopped and took a quiet, deep breath. "Thank you. For everything."

Wilson smiled sadly. "I ... you're welcome." He looked down at the grass. "You should probably say that to _him_, though."

"I'll get better at it eventually." House laughed. "This ... doesn't really count, does it? I mean, do I have to give you ten bucks?"

"Are you dying?"

"No."

"Then what do you think?"

"That I should have said it a long time ago," House admitted dejectedly.

Wilson put his hand on House's shoulder and smiled. "It's a start," he said, and removed the hand to lower himself into a reclined position. He gave one last, quick glance at House before shutting his eyes, sighing into the grass.

There was a lot left for House to think about.

Meanwhile he decided to savor the moment before the leg started bothering him again or he was forced to wake up to go to work. Casting one more furtive glance at Wilson, House closed his eyes and, for the first time in what felt like his entire life, breathed easily.


End file.
